Читать книгу Ralph Raymond's Heir - Alger Horatio Jr., Thomas Chandler Haliburton - Страница 2

The house in Twenty-ninth Street was a solid and substantial one which could only be occupied by a man of wealth. It was handsomely furnished, and all the appointments were such as to confirm the impression that its occupant was, to say the least, in easy circumstances financially. But it happens oftentimes that outward impressions are very far from correct. It was a fact that Paul Morton, who had lived here for ten years, was on the verge of ruin, and knew very well that unless some help should come he would be compelled to leave his fine residence and sink into poverty and obscurity.

He was a downtown merchant, but lured by the hope of large gains, had indulged in outside speculations which had sapped the springs of his prosperity and brought him face to face with ruin.

Just at this juncture, on reaching home one day, jaded and anxious, he found that a guest had arrived whom they had not seen for years. Ralph Raymond was his cousin, and of about the same age as himself. As boys they had been sworn friends and comrades, and each had promised the other that if he died first without family ties, he would leave to the survivor his entire property, whatever it might amount to.

When they became young men, Paul Morton remained in New York, but Ralph went, after a few years, to China, where he had spent his subsequent life with brief intervals, as a successful merchant. Paul Morton heard from time to time of his success, and that he had accumulated a fortune, and the thought occurred to him, for earlier generous feelings had been swallowed up in the greed of gain, "If he only dies first, I shall be greatly the gainer."

When he met his friend, he found him greatly changed. He was thin, sallow, and to outward appearance hadn't long to live.

"You find me greatly changed, Paul, do you not?" said Ralph Raymond.

"Yes, you are changed, of course, for I have not seen you for twenty years," was the reply.

"But I am looking very ill, am I not?"

"You are not looking well; but perhaps it is the change of climate."

"It is something more than that," said Ralph, shaking his head. "Old friend, I feel that I have not many months to live. I have within my frame the seeds of a fatal disease, which I cannot much longer stave off. I feel its insidious approaches, and I know that my weakened vital powers cannot much longer resist them. I have one favor to ask."

"What is it?"

"May I spend the short remainder of my life in your house? I shrink from going among strangers. It will be a great relief to me if I can feel that I am in the house of my old friend when the solemn messenger arrives."

"Surely," said Paul Morton, "I hope you are mistaken in your gloomy prognostications; but, however that may be, you shall be welcome here so long as it pleases you to stay."

"Thank you; I was sure you would consent. As to my being mistaken, that is hardly possible. This time next year I shall not be numbered among the living."

Looking at his thin face and attenuated frame, Paul Morton felt that his words were probably correct, and his heart glowed with exultation as he felt that Ralph Raymond was without family ties, and that at his death, which would soon happen, in all probability his large fortune, one hundred thousand dollars at least, would become his. This would relieve him of all his embarrassments, give him a firm financial standing.

Shortly after Ralph Raymond was confined to his bed by sickness. The physician who was called spoke ambiguously. He might die suddenly, or he might linger for a year. Days and weeks passed, and still he remained in about the same condition, so that the last seemed likely to be the correct prediction.

In the meanwhile, Paul Morton's affairs had become more and more embarrassed. He had plunged into speculations from which he did not see the way out. He perceived his mistake, but too late. Nothing was left but for him to float with the tide, and be borne where it might carry him.

He did not doubt that at the death of his guest, his large property would be his. Indeed, a casual remark of Ralph Raymond's had confirmed him in the impression. As time wore on, and his pecuniary difficulties increased, he began to long for his friend's death.

"A few months more or less of life would be of little importance to him," he thought, "while to me it is of incalculable importance to come into his estate as soon as possible."

The more he thought of it the more frequently the suggestion was forced upon him that his friend's early death was most desirable. At length, as he was in a book store on Nassau Street one day, he picked up an old medical work, in which there was one division which treated of poisons. One was mentioned, of a subtle character, whose agency was difficult of detection. It did not accomplish its purpose at once, but required some days.

Paul Morton bought this book, and when he reached home he locked it up securely in a drawer accessible only to himself.

We have now brought up the story to the point where the first chapter commences.

The poison which he sought in the small shop on the Bowery was the same whose effects he had seen described in the volume he had purchased in Nassau Street. He had an object in going to an obscure shop, as he would be less likely to be known, and such a purchase would be very apt to attract notice. But it was only by chance that he succeeded. In most shops of such humble pretensions such an article would not be found, but it so happened that some had been ordered by a chemist a year before, and the druggist, thinking it possible he might have a call for it, had ordered some to keep in his stock.

When Paul Morton reached home, he went up to his friend's chamber.

Ralph Raymond was lying stretched out upon the bed, looking quite sick; but not so sick as at times during his illness.

"How do you feel, Ralph?" said his false friend, bending over him.

"I am feeling more comfortable to-day, Paul," he said.

"Perhaps you will recover yet."

"No, I have no expectation of that; but I may be spared longer than I supposed possible."

"I certainly hope so," said Paul Morton; but there was a false ring in his voice, though the sick man, who had no doubt of his sincere friendship, was far enough from detecting this.

"I know you do," said Ralph.

"What medicines are you taking now?" inquired Paul Morton.

"There is a bottle of cordial; I take a wineglass of it once an hour."

Paul Morton took up the bottle and gazed at it thoughtfully.

"Is your nurse attentive?" he asked.

"Yes, I have no fault to find with her."

"Where is she now?"

"She just went down to prepare my dinner."

"When did you take your cordial last?"

"About an hour since."

"Then it is time to take it again."

"Yes, I suppose so; but I presume a few minutes later will make no difference."

"It is better to be regular about it. As the nurse is away I will give it to you."

"Thank you."

"I must go to the window, to see how much to pour out. How much do you usually take?"

"A wine-glass two-thirds full."

Paul Morton took the bottle and the glass to the window. As he stood there he was out of the observation of the patient. He poured out the required quantity of the cordial into the glass; but after doing so, he slyly added a small quantity of powder from a paper which he drew from his vest pocket. He put the paper back, and reappeared at the bedside holding the glass in his hand.

"I think I have poured out the right quantity," he said; but his voice was constrained, and there was a pallor about his face.

The sick man noticed nothing of this. He took the cup and drained it of its contents, as a matter of course.

"Thank you, Paul," he said.

Paul Morton could not find anything to say in reply to the thanks which fell upon his soul like a mockery.

He took the glass from the trembling hand of the sick man, and looked into it to see if in the depths there might be any tell-tale trace of the powder which he had dropped into it; but he could see nothing.

"Well, I must leave you for a time. Perhaps you can sleep," he said.

"Perhaps so; I will try," was the answer.

Paul Morton left the sick chamber, and shut himself up in his own room. He wanted to screen himself from the sight of all, for he knew that he had taken the fatal step, and that already, in deed, as well as in heart, he was a murderer!